Captain of My Heart (29 page)

Their eyes met, spunky challenge in hers,
frustration in his that was helpless against her impish charm. As
he’d said, he didn’t always follow orders, even his own. Impulse
and desire won out over control and wisdom.

There’d be time for regrets later.

He jammed his hat down over his brow. Then he
strode back to her as purposefully as he’d left her, yanking her
into his arms and stilling her triumphant laughter. Wet hair clung
to her cheeks. Snow melted on her face, running between their lips
as his mouth slammed down on hers, relentless, driving, almost
punishing. She tasted of fresh air and melted snow, smelled of
roses, sweet hay, and the promise of springtime. He dragged her
hood off, plunged his hands into her thick, warm hair, and kissed
her hard. And still the snow fell, frosting their shoulders, her
hair, his hat.

Out in the river,
Kestrel
watched, and
waited.

He tore away, breathing hard, before falling
back against the sleigh and throwing a hand over his eyes.

She ran her tongue over her lips. There was
an unspoken invitation in her eyes, a challenge.

And Brendan had never been able to resist a
challenge. Nor, when one threw herself at him, a wee bonny lass.
Faith, why was she doing this to him? So innocent, and yet, so
totally, utterly
woman—

She came forward and, catlike, rubbed herself
against his chest, causing white-hot flame to explode in his
loins.

“Show me your ship, Brendan.”

“Mira—”

“I’ll even help you row out to her.”

“
D’anam don diabhal!
” he swore.
Faith. Faith and damnation. Faith and
hell
and
damnation
.

He turned and slammed off down the wharf,
defeated.

And Mira, who had to run to keep up with him,
stared up at his proud back, saw the grim, desperate set of his
jaw—

And smiled.

Chapter 17

Kestrel
lay like a nesting hawk, her
sides as black as the river. Her gunwales were lost beneath a
mantle of snow, her sharply raked masts spiraled with the tide, and
her blocks and rigging creaked and knocked. The sounds were loud in
the frozen stillness of the night, and louder still as Brendan
rowed their boat closer and closer.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

His tone was no longer frustrated but
reverent. Again Mira felt that quick stab of jealousy. “Aye,” she
agreed.

“You ought to see her under full sail. She’d
take your breath away.”

I have seen her under full sail
, she
thought.
Plunging through trough and crest alike, wreathed in
the smoke of her own guns, and skimming the sea with fore and main
set wing and wing.

Instead she said, “I’ll bet she’s
gorgeous.”

“More than gorgeous. Sometime I’ll take you
out for a short cruise. You don’t get seasick, do you?”

“Once in a while,” she lied.

“Well, we’ll go out on a calm day. Maybe I’ll
even let you take the helm for a bit.”

He looked quite pleased with himself, as
though taking the tiller of a fine and dancing ship would be a new
experience for her. If he only knew. She’d taken
Proud
Mistress
’s helm more times than she could remember—in battle,
in calm, in stormy seas and in gentle ones. She’d brought prizes
into harbor, guiding them through the tricky bars, sunken piers,
shifting winds, and dangerous currents at the Merrimack’s mouth.
She’d learned to sail before she could walk, tie knots before she
could talk, and had been in and out of boats her entire life.

But what Brendan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt
him. Especially if it might later be used to her own advantage.

“That would be nice,” she agreed. “Maybe in
the springtime when the seas are calmer.”

As they passed beneath the schooner’s bow,
she saw him gaze up at the little hawk that was her figurehead.
Snow capped his shoulders like twin epaulets, and a gust of wind
tugged at his queue, dark beneath his tricorne. Mira thought of him
in command of this fine ship, calm, carefree, and dashing, and
again flushed with sudden heat.
Newburyport’s newest hero,
the townspeople had proclaimed.
The Captain from Connaught,
the Irishmen aboard
Kestrel
called him. She sighed happily.
Is this what love felt like? This feeling that the world could
crumble to dust and it wouldn’t matter one bit as long as she was
with him?

Fighting the pull of the tide, Brendan
maneuvered the boat close to the schooner and secured it to her
chains. Mira could have easily made the climb up
Kestrel’s
icy sides with no assistance, but she dared not reveal her seagoing
skills. Besides, it was much more fun to tuck her hand in Brendan’s
and allow him to help her.

Up the side they went, Brendan carrying the
quilts and furs, still warm with their body heat, over his arm. The
schooner’s decks were bare, her hatches, ringbolts, and guns
looking distorted beneath the thick blanket of snow. There were no
footprints.
Kestrel
was deserted.

They stood there for a moment, neither saying
a word as the wind blew snow into their hair and faces. A tense
expectancy built between them. “Well, you wanted to see her, and so
you shall,” Brendan said. “Watch your step. I wouldn’t want you to
trip and fall over anything.”

“Maybe you’d better take my hand so I don’t
slip,” she suggested, though she had no need of such
assistance.

He complied, and Mira grinned to herself.

They shuffled through six inches of snow,
heading aft and leaving dark trails across the deck. Beneath their
feet,
Kestrel
rocked easily; above their heads, shrouds
whined and blocks banged, as though the schooner were begging her
captain to take her back to sea. Mira watched him lay a fond hand
atop her gunwale and gently brush the snow aside, heard him murmur
something beneath his breath; and then he cleared the snow from the
hatch, tugged it open, and led her down into the cold, dark depths
of the ship.

Onshore, he’d been reluctant to have anything
to do with her. Now, the decision made to bring her aboard, he was
determined, almost resolute. Or maybe he’d just given up trying to
resist her. Either way, Mira marveled at the way a ship could
change a man, and felt a twinge of resentment.

Around her,
Kestrel
seemed to laugh
softly to herself.

It was drier below deck without the wind, but
the cold hung about them like a block of ice, still and heavy and
silent. Their footsteps echoed on varnished planking. Their
breathing sounded unnaturally loud. And surrounding them, Mira felt
Kestrel
’s own presence; watching her, assessing her, sizing
her up as a rival for the attentions of her captain. It was an
unnerving feeling, one that a landsman would never have recognized.
But Mira was no landsman. She was well aware of the almost mystical
affection that ships and captains had for each other—and knew that
if she wanted to win this handsome sea officer from his lady love,
she’d have her work cut out for her.

Kestrel
would not make an easy rival.
Sweet and demure in one moment, sleek and siren-like the next, a
predator, a courtesan, a lady all in one. Mira smiled wryly in the
darkness, her hand still folded in Brendan’s as he pushed open his
cabin door.
I can be sweet and demure, too,
she thought,
silently transmitting her thoughts to the listening bulkheads, the
gently rocking deck, the creaking masts that sounded unnaturally
loud down here in the still quiet.
And I will fight you for him
as long as I live.

I met him first,
the schooner seemed
to whisper,
and I will no more give him up than you
will.

“We shall see,” Mira said aloud.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said hastily as Brendan
turned, his face pale in the darkness. Around her, the bulkheads
seemed to shake with frivolous laughter.

She wondered if she was coming unhinged.

She waited silently, shivering, as Brendan
rooted in the gloom for a flint. Moments later, a lantern’s soft
glow warmed the little cabin. It was the first time that Mira had
been in here since Brendan had taken up residence, and she was
pleased, very pleased, with what he had done.

A table, carefully rubbed down with oil, was
snugged up against the bulkhead. A mahogany lap desk, an inkwell, a
goose quill, a set of brass navigational instruments, and the
schooner’s leather-bound log were neatly arranged atop it. A
braided rug covered the deck planking, and a pile of wood was
carefully stacked beside a tiny stove. A sword hung on the
bulkhead, and the neatly made bunk was spread with a thick
blue-and-white checkered quilt whose workmanship looked
suspiciously like Abigail’s—and probably was, given the
housekeeper’s fondness for “Captain Brendan.” Above it, a small
cabinet was built into the bulkhead, and beneath it were several
drawers, all neatly closed with no clothing hanging out of them, as
was the case in Matt’s cabin aboard
Proud Mistress.
And
unlike that other cabin, there was no liquor cabinet, no decanter
of brandy on the table, no assortment of glasses scattered about in
various stages of emptiness—nothing but a porcelain bowl and
pitcher that probably contained water, no doubt frozen solid by
now.

“You’ve done a fine decorating job,” she said
earnestly, as he took off his tricorne and placed it on the
table.

“Think so?”

“I do.”

The silence hung between them, heavy and
awkward. Mira wondered if he, too, was thinking about kissing.
Kissing . . . and other things. He was fidgeting again. She watched
him for a moment, cursing his shyness, loving it. Finally she
looked at the tiny wood stove and said, “I think you should light a
fire.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cold. It would take the chill
out.”

He stared at her, frustrated, confused, and
defenseless.

“Good heavens, Brendan. You did say you’re
going to sleep here tonight, didn’t you? You might as well make
yourself comfortable.” She picked up a piece of kindling and tossed
it to him. “Here. What are you waiting for?”

He looked trapped. “Don’t you want a tour of
the ship?”

She groaned silently. “Later. Just get the
stove going, Brendan. I’m freezing.”

She watched as he piled kindling and a pair
of logs into the tiny stove and lit it from the tinderbox. With his
back toward her, he couldn’t see her impish, triumphant grin. Of
course, once the fire was burning, he couldn’t leave the ship to
escort her back home. He would be staying aboard
Kestrel
tonight.

And so, she vowed to herself with sudden
recklessness, would she.

Now he was squatting down on his heels and
feeding more kindling to the crackling flames, the scent of burning
wood mingling with that of tallow, melted snow, oil, and new
varnish. His hands were spread toward the heat; snow melted from
his boots and puddled beneath them. From behind the little glass
door the flames glowed against his face, making him look like a sun
god. Adonis, Father had called him.

She stood there drinking in the sight of him.
Wanting him but not very sure how to go about getting him. She was
bold, but terrified. Determined, but worried about crossing the
line between playfulness and offense. She chewed her lip, her gaze
roving over his artist’s hands with their long, tapered fingers,
his boyishly tousled hair, now coming free of its queue and curling
damply over his forehead, his ears, his collar. She had a sudden
urge to loosen it from the black ribbon at his nape and run her
fingers through it.

She noticed then that he was shivering,
too.

She squatted beside him and poked another
piece of kindling into the growing flames. “You should’ve told me
you were so cold.”

“I’m not c-cold.” He looked over at her with
a helpless grin, his teeth chattering. “I’m
freezing.”

A trickle of melted snow ran down his
temple.

Wickedly, she had a sudden desire to lean
forward and catch it on her tongue.

The snow might be melting on him, but the ice
that lay between them had a long way to go before it was thawed.
And suddenly Mira knew what she had to do. They were here, alone,
in this cozy little cabin with a warm fire, a safe harbor, and the
snow swirling just outside the stern windows. She had cleverly
manipulated him into bringing her here. She sensed his desire for
her, and her own for him surged and pounded through her blood like
a fever left unchecked. And it would stay unchecked if she didn’t
take the initiative.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up one of
the furs and tossed it down before the stove. He stiffened and a
muscle tensed in his jaw. Kicking off her boots, Mira removed her
cloak, tossed it over a chair, and stretched out beside him.

He edged away, warily. “What are you
doing?”

“Getting comfortable.”

He turned back to the stove, pointedly
refusing to look at her. Mira sidled closer to him. “Take your coat
off,” she said.

“I’d rather not.”

“Look, it’s soaked. No wonder you’re
freezing! Here, I’ll help you.”

He didn’t move. The silence, punctuated by
the snapping hiss of burning wood, waited, as though
Kestrel
herself were testing her. That challenge did it. Without further
deliberation Mira sat up, found the buttons of his lapel, and one
by one, undid them. He endured her touch, his shoulders stiff as
she drew off the heavy coat and tossed it over the chair back to
dry, but made no move to stop her.

“For being Newburyport’s newest hero, you’re
more jittery than a schoolboy with his first girl,” she said,
softly.

He shut his eyes. “This is wrong.”

She sat back down beside him. Another drop of
water, reflecting the firelight, trickled down his temple.
Impulsively, Mira pressed her lips there, and put her tongue
against his skin.